Ever wondered what Rohan Joshi thinks of Indian art?

If you can’t tell your Kapoor from your Kallat, fear not! Rohan Joshi puts together a killer cheat sheet for Indian art that ensures you won’t need to

Whether or not art is useless is a question for wiser men than this writer. I do know with unflinching certainty, however, that I am useless at art. My staggering aesthetic critique of the Mona Lisa on the wall of the Louvre was, “It’s really small.” So if you know the first thing about art, it’s probably best to a) ignore everything I say over the next thousand or so words, and b) please tell me the first thing about art.

However, if, like me, you think “Ravinder Reddy’s giant head” refers to the inflated ego of a south Indian megastar, then you’re in the right place. I have devised a system of bullshit and obfuscation to get you (well actually me, but because I’m nice, also you) through any gallery openings or exhibitions that you may find yourself at.

> A is for Anish Kapoor. He’s basically the Sachin Tendulkar of the Indian art scene, which is to say that he’s the international byword for Indian art; is gifted in a way where even people who don’t understand the game understand his prodigious talent; and if you say you think he’s overrated, somebody will burn your house down and shoot your dog. Which, weirdly enough, could also be an Anish Kapoor installation.

> Ooohh, installation. No, it’s not that thing you struggle to do after Flipkart delivers your new TV. Jargon holds the key to all bullshit; so if something is flat against a wall, it’s a ‘painting’ or an ‘artwork’ or a ‘fuck you, bastard mosquito’, but if it’s a three-dimensional use of a space, it’s an ‘installation’. Word to the wise: at a gallery, you may come across completely normal three-dimensional objects that are not in fact installations—but it’s hard to tell sometimes. So always clarify before you pee into something.

> Always google the artist, because that way you learn their first name. In polite society, a first name is a more formidable weapon than a PhD in art history. If you can roll “Oh that’s the thing about Atul’s work…” off your tongue without skipping a beat, it suggests a personal familiarity or intimacy with the artist that should throw whoever you’re speaking to off guard. Unless the person you’re talking to is Atul Dodiya, but you’d know his face if you’d just googled him like I told you to.

> Google searches also throw up excellent people-who-search-for-this-also-search-for suggestions—in case you feel like living dangerously and comparing the artist with their contemporaries. (Never rivals, never competitors, always ‘contemporaries’—‘peers’ if you’re the low-syllable-count type.)

> This one is important; so pay attention. It’s pronounced BEE-YAH-NA-LAY, and the Kochi-Muziris Biennale is something that every patron of the arts worth their salt knows about. This event, held once every two years, is basically what you’d get if Woodstock had a child with the Jaipur Literature Festival, and that child grew up with no friends, and could turn only to its inner torment and alienation for expression. So if you’re reading this in an even-numbered year, ask the person if they’re going to the Biennale this year. If you’re reading this in an odd-numbered year, ask if they went last year, or are going next year.

> MF Husain is no longer with us. Please use the past tense when referencing him. (Remember Google?)

> If you run into a young, struggling artist on your journey whose work is relatively inexpensive, buy two pieces, not one. Congratulations friend, you are now a ‘collector’.

> Unless told otherwise, just assume everybody went to the JJ School of Art.

> If you find yourself forced to comment on an artwork you do not understand, Instagram is your friend. Open up Instagram’s photo-editing tools, pick one or several headings, and use them as the focal point of your critique. For example, “What I love about this piece from Akbar Padamsee’s ‘Metascapes’ is the brightness and warmth of its lower half, contrasted with the muted colours of the upper half. I love how he avoids rigid structures, relying instead on saturation to make the colours pop. It is because of this that Akbar (see what I did there?) will never fade away, and this piece will remain one of the highlights of his career.” Easy.

> Still in doubt over what to say? Never commit, just question. For example: “The faces in the works of Krishen Khanna have undefined features…. Why do you think that is?” If the person next to you is also a bullshitter, the onus is on them to say something clever. And if they consider themselves a genuine patron of the arts, then nod attentively for about three minutes and then walk away. Don’t worry, they won’t notice; they’re too busy making love to the sound of their own voice. Trust me.

> And if you’re still too terrified to speak, then for you, dear friend, I have one final solution. I’m not proud of this one, but desperate times call for desperate measures; pick any one psychological scar on the Indian consciousness, and let rip. So if an artwork seems instinctively angry or loud to you, stare at it for 20 seconds, wipe your face in amazement, look over every few seconds at the person next to you and nod excitedly, and then just mutter, “My god, she’s found beauty even in the Partition/liberation of Bangladesh/Indo-China war/militancy in Kashmir/karele ki sabzi,” and walk away, still looking amazed. This move comes with the added satisfaction of befuddling the patron next to you, who is now gutted with insecurity at the fact that they didn’t spot the metaphor that you did.

There. You’re all set. I look forward to seeing you at the Biennale. Are you attending this year, by the way? I hear Atul’s got some incredible things planned.